She walked. It was almost time.She
walked through the apartment from the kitchen, to the living room, to her
bedroom. She paused in front of her grandmother's mirror to see her naked
body. Does he actually like these saggy breasts? She couldn't believe so,
but at least her waist was still visible. (Heavy sigh.) �Where is he?"

More pacing. The VCR clock said 5:31.
Of course, his lateness didn't surprise her at this point in the relationship.
Her anxiety was catching up with her, however, and she was impatient. Another
check. The dishes were done, the bed made, the obvious areas of living-room
carpet vacuumed. As she paced through the hall to the bathroom, the ammonia
in the cat box wafted through her rather insensitive nostrils. Slight panic.
"If I can smell it, he will for sure." She wiped the bathroom sink with
her wet rag. Impatiently picking up shaving cream, toothbrush, the two
decorative fish from his mother, to wipe under them. Feeling the dirt on
her feet, she thought about washing the floor. Her depression hadn't allowed
for such an arduous task in months.

Picking up a cigarette and making another
cup of coffee, she remembered both her doctors' warnings about caffeine.
She felt sorry for her digestive system as if it weren't a part of herself.
She coughed and felt guilty about her lungs.

She was tired. Last night had been
the habitual Seinfeld and Frazier hour, followed by Roseanne's
tribute to the 1950s and Star Trek: The New Generation, featuring
her favorite character, Data. It was a good TV night for her, but she'd
still woken with uneasiness at 7:30, two full hours before her psych-rehab
group. Group had gone well (people laughed), but the rest of the day she'd
been pacing. Too confused to pinpoint the cause, she decided to let it
continue until Judge Judy came on. Her recent paralysis (strictly emotional)
bewildered her.

Judge Judy came and went. 6:31.
It amazed her that the TV icon could discriminate (supposedly, she thought)
when people were lying to her. The judge was discerning, decisive: she
seemed to be right all the time. It made her feel relieved to think there
was still a right and wrong, like they had promised her in Catholic school.
6:45. Her anxiety escalated. She didn't mind pacing through the Judge's
commercials, but she couldn't really tolerate the news. �Where is he?�
Another check. What did she do today? Trying to remember: She was proud
of having been able to encourage herself through her shower this morning.
�All I'm doing is taking a shower... I do it all the time... Turn on the
water... Get in the tub... The water will feel good.� She even remembered
to wash her hair, brush her teeth, put medicine on her face. Another seemingly
simple task accomplished.

6:47. Why all this pacing? Had she
remembered her medicine last night? Yes, she always remembered her medicine
now that she finally accepted her illness. This pacing was not a side effect
either. Why couldn't she read? Why couldn't she get out of her own head?
Pointless questions. He'll be here soon, she thought; or eventually, she
knew. But why did he have to torture her like this? Peeking out the window,
no car. Every car that went by began to sound like his.

She remembered quite a bit of the last
time, actually: She opened the door to the basement. The neighbors�
emaciated and frenzied pit bull straggled up the stairs. Shocked and infuriated,
she pulled him by the collar into her apartment. They were starving him
to death! This cruelty could not be tolerated. When the boys came up to
explain she shot an angry �I�m taking care of him tonight� and slammed
the door in their faces.

Cajun�s fur was flea-bitten, and
the tip of his tail sprayed her sewing room with blood. Trying to organize
her thoughts, she looked at the dog. Water. Food. Blankets. In her determination
she forgot all she'd learned about starvation. Nurses know that patients
must be gradually reintroduced to food. She found her salad bow, filled
it with water. She gave him her old comforter to lie on, something cushy.
After locking her cats in another room she gave him all the catfood.

Frenzied--lapping up water--Cajun,
whom she loved, guzzled down the catfood then danced in front of her, gulping
air: �More, more, more!� She took him to the refrigerator and gave him
a half-pound of ground beef. One gulp: "more!" She emptied the refrigerator:
Mayonnaise, celery, broccoli, on the kitchen floor.

Later that night... with urine,
feces, and vomit everywhere, all she could remember was pacing back and
forth. �I didn't deserve this� while her right shoulder began contracting,
stiffer and stiffer until, for no apparent reason, it became a painful
useless limb. Back to the hospital.

7:09. "I've got the butter, baby!"
he said, and her craving made her decision for her. She didn't actually
crave the butter. Her medicine seemed to block the euphoric feeling she'd
heard about. Euphoria: that would be a strong pull, she knew. She, however,
craved his company; she didn't want him to leave her.

He took the chipped china salad plate
and the blue-handled steak knife he'd given her. Tearing the baggy open
with his teeth, he squeezed out a small portion of the coveted rock, emptying
the bag. �Geez, that's small.� �Yeah, these are babies,� he said. �Give
me the thing.� She opened the drug box and retrieved the glass pipe, jagged
and burnt at one end, and the pusher, a straight metal tool, fashioned
from a coat hanger. He picked up the pipe greedily, loaded it, and surfed
in the air for her lighter. He lit the pipe, heating the glass for a second,
then raising it to his lips. His hit took several seconds, while she rocked
impatiently on the couch, waiting her turn.

He filled the pipe for her, and the
evening took a downhill turn. He knew he shouldn't bring the drugs to her,
but he could no longer help himself. She would have been happier with dinner
and a movie, but would do anything to hold him there with her. She didn't
think about the butter much except when it was there, right in front of
her.

She inhaled, taking the smoke deeply
into her lungs; holding the pipe while waiting for another hit. �Why do
you have to do that?� — he asked his usual question. �Take one hit and
relax.� Ignoring him, she hit the pipe one more time before putting it
down. It was a compulsion for her. �How much do we have?� �Three bags and
no money.� Ah well, she thought. At least we have two more.

She had taught him gin-rummy. This
was part of their ritual. Hit the pipe, hide the evidence, play cards.
His paranoia began to set in; he kept leaving the game to peer out the
windows. �It's your turn, honey.� �My shot?� he would ask. Typically she'd
be on pins and needles by the end of the game, waiting for her next hit.
How could he remain so calm? she wondered. But she did wait. And he always
went first. She preferred going last anyway.

He opened the baggy and handed it to
her. Part of her ritual was opening the baggy and licking it out. She felt
she got an extra taste of the drug this way, and it also gave her something
to do with her hands. It was her turn again. She loaded up the pipe and
drew in the heavy smoke. After the first hit the compulsion to do it again
was so strong that she would almost cry if he did not let her. She took
a second hit and then dealt the cards. When there was only one bag left,
it was good to make yourself wait as long as possible for the last one.
He began looking out the windows again, so she settled down to solitaire.
She didn't feel settled though; she was barely restrained. What's more,
he seemed fairly relaxed after they ran out, resigned to the fact that
they had no more money. She went into the bathroom and cried. Racking her
brain for a way to get some more, knowing all the while she'd go through
these same emotions any time they'd run out. At these times she felt she
cared more for the butter than for him and the guilt weighed on her. Why
couldn't they do something normal people did?

�Are you ready for bed, Buttergirl?�
Grudgingly, she was. There was nothing to do but lie down and feel awful.
They would usually have sex on these occasions, but she was convinced it
was mostly to take their minds off the drugs than any real desire to be
together.

As she lay in bed all her worries flooded
her head. They were supposed to have moved out of this depressing apartment
by now. They were supposed to be living together. Lately, though, all his
money was going to drugs and she no longer knew how to stop it. Eventually
something bad would happen, she knew. He'd declare bankruptcy and wind
up in rehab or she would find herself on another mental ward. She needed
to summon the strength to stop smoking for both their sakes, but then she
feared she wouldn't see him at all. She couldn't bear the thought of being
alone, but she also knew she'd have to try to be the strong one. As she
wrestled with sleep she knew one thing more. �This shit ain't nobody's
butter.�

Write "Ellavon" at ellavon@ellavon.com.Editor: Robert
BasilPublisher: The
Raylock Design Group.Copyright retained
by all contributors.